


Haven

by guns_and_poses



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cold Weather, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Humor, M/M, New Year's Eve, Pre-Slash, Romance, Slash, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 20:38:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/614101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guns_and_poses/pseuds/guns_and_poses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John share a traditional New Year's Eve kiss... almost.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i>There’s a refuge of warmth materializing in the thin space between their bodies, and they both begin to sway into it. John raises his head to look up at Sherlock just as Sherlock opens his eyes to look down at John, and suddenly they feel precariously close.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Haven

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** I know London’s not necessarily prone to extremely cold winters, but I conjured a cold snap for this. I actually wrote this for last New Year’s Eve but didn’t finish it until a couple of days after New Year’s Day. I felt like I had missed the moment, as it were, so I decided to hold onto it for this year.

 

 

The sudden cold snap is more devious and tenacious than predicted. It creeps into the city overnight, digs bitter claws into buildings, tearing through skin of glass and brick, deep into bones of wood and steel. It howls its hateful breath of frigid wind as it prowls, sheds its thick coat of frost as it stalks low over the fragile grounds of gardens and the defenseless surfaces of streets, and leaves a dusting of snowflakes scattered in its footsteps.  
  
It’s New Year’s Eve, and John wakes in the dark of early morning, due perhaps to the sound of his name, or perhaps to the shifting weight dipping into his mattress, or perhaps the extremely unwelcome chill engulfing his bare neck as the covers of his bed are pulled down.  
  
“John,” Sherlock tries again, a little louder, his mouth hardening in irritation then slowly melting into an amused smirk as John stirs and yanks the covers back up under his chin.  
  
John groans and mumbles, his cheek smashed into his pillow, “I swear to God you better have chopped off your finger or something.” He rolls over and unexpectedly comes into contact with Sherlock’s hip. He realizes Sherlock is not only sitting on the edge of his bed, but he is also being marvelously warm in comparison to the cool room. For a deliriously sleep-addled moment John pictures himself grabbing Sherlock, dragging him down onto the bed, sprawling out on top of him and falling back asleep. John starts a little as the rest of his brain catches up to that thought. As wonderful as the idea sounds, he decides Sherlock might not appreciate it very much.  
  
“No severed appendages I’m afraid. Sorry to disappoint,” Sherlock says as he turns on the bedside lamp. He observes John’s disheveled hair and is momentarily baffled when his brain automatically categorizes it as ‘endearing’. He shakes his head as if to remove the distraction by force. “Case, John.”  
  
John squints in Sherlock’s direction and lets out the beginning of another long miserable groan as he starts to turn his head to look at his alarm clock. Then Sherlock says, more smug than solicitous, “Half five” and John’s groan deepens into an annoyed growl.  
  
“You’ve got to be joking,” John says, rubbing his eyes.  
  
“Crime waits for no man,” Sherlock says, springing back onto his feet and taking a step away from John’s bed to give him room to get up.  
  
“You mean _you_ wait for no _crime_ ,” John grumbles as he throws the covers back and sits up. “Holy fu–" John curls into himself instinctively. "It’s freezing!”  
  
“Is it?” Sherlock says, already wrapped up snugly in his coat and scarf and barely holding back a smile.  
  
John quickly bundles himself into his dressing gown and scrambles to put on some socks. "I really, really hate you so very, very much," he says, to Sherlock's utter delight.  
  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
  
Hours later and the meager meal of winter’s short-lived daylight has long ago been swallowed by the black of night. The cold made sure to leave a toehold in the daytime, and now it's back with a vengeance to reestablish a claim on its hard-won territory. It’s currently tormenting Sherlock and John, who are hiding in a darkened alcove across the street from their suspect’s flat.  
  
Despite the protection of his greatcoat, Sherlock shivers as the cold pounces and swipes a rough gust of wind across his face and through his hair. He lowers his chin farther into his scarf and upturned collar and glances over at John who’s huddled next to him.  
  
John keeps his eyes on the building they’re surveilling, but tenses under the force of the wind. "Have I mentioned lately that I hate you?"  
  
"Not since you were splashed by that car."  
  
" _Oh_ , right _. Right,_ " John drawls, nodding. "I'm overdue then."  
  
Sherlock smirks. "Noted."  
  
John curls and flexes his fingers, feeling dulling numbness settling into them despite his gloves. “Fine way to spend New Year’s Eve,” he says dryly.  
  
“You didn’t have any other plans for tonight."  
  
“I might've.”  
  
“But you didn’t.”  
  
“But I _might have_.”  
  
“But you _did not_.”  
  
They fall quiet until the wind hits them again. John sucks a pained breath in through his teeth. “Actually I did have plans for tonight. Very specific plans of _not_ surrendering my bollocks to frostbite. So far those plans are going to shit.”  
  
A cloud of breath bursts out of Sherlock along with his laugh, and John smiles in response. Without realizing they’re both doing it, they strafe a little closer together.  
  
Their attention is drawn when the suspect exits the front of the building and begins pacing nervously near the front door. The man looks around him, obviously searching for any sign that he’s being watched. Sherlock and John both reflexively turn towards one another and duck their heads to shadow their faces. They wind up tucked in close to each other, John’s head almost under Sherlock’s chin.  
  
John tries to keep his senses alert and his mind ready for any impending danger, but the most pervasive thought in his head is how easy it would be to take one more tiny step forward and press the entirety of his body against Sherlock's and bury his face in the warmth of Sherlock's neck.  
  
Sherlock looks down at John, sees his ear looking incredibly exposed and vulnerable, and frowns at himself when he has to fight down the urge to shield it with his own gloved hand. He tries to refocus on their task, flicks a sideways glance to the man across the street to observe his movements. But he feels the heat of John’s breath seeping through the layer of his scarf, and his eyes drift closed of their own accord.  
  
There’s a refuge of warmth materializing in the thin space between their bodies, and they both begin to sway into it. John raises his head to look up at Sherlock just as Sherlock opens his eyes to look down at John, and suddenly they feel precariously close.  
  
A smattering of muffled shouts and cheers drifts down from a flat somewhere above them, the sound deadened by the wailing wind. They hear counting...  
  
_...ten... nine... eight... seven..._  
  
...they gaze at one another, entranced, and lean impossibly closer...  
  
_...six... five... four..._  
  
...the fog of their exhales clears from the air between them as they both hold their breath and lean closer still...  
  
_...three... two... one..._  
  
...they part in a flurry of movement as the flash from the headlamps of a car driving past sweeps across them before casting them back into darkness. The car stops across the street, and the suspect bends down to speak with the driver. Sherlock and John watch the exchange intently, both breathing hard and avoiding looking at one another as the sound of fireworks echoes in the distance.  
  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
  
The next couple of hours are filled with awkward glances, a foot chase cut short by a fortuitous patch of ice, two now-limping kidnappers being hauled away in a police car, and a surprisingly unscathed victim whose exuberant gratitude John accepts graciously and Sherlock tolerates poorly.  
  
They manage to find a place to have a late-night victory dinner, during which they chatter on about the food, the case, and the weather, but most definitely _not_ the almost-kiss. As they endure the short walk back to the flat, the unfriendly temperature has left the streets fairly empty, with only a few straggling revelers still braving the outdoors and sporadically interrupting the relative quiet.  
  
They walk in companionable silence, hands tucked into pockets and heads down, until another violent gust leaps upon them and halts them in their tracks. They turn their faces away from it, towards one another, and when it retreats they find themselves staring at each other, drawn into that same haven of warmth their bodies create together.  
  
There’s no culmination of a celebration to compel them, no superstitious tradition to appease, for that moment has now passed. But Sherlock still leans down, slides one of his hands to the back of John’s neck, and John still stretches up, rests one of his hands on Sherlock’s waist, and then...  
  
...they clumsily bump the tips of their noses together...  
  
...they breathe out hushed laughs...  
  
...they try again, lean in again...  
  
...and _then_...  
  
...their lips are so amazingly warm against each other that at first they just remain there, hang suspended in that heat. For a moment it almost feels like enough, like it’s all they need, this simple press of each other's mouths. But then their mouths are opening to one another, just the barest touch of tongues, and suddenly that precarious balance is thrown. Because while the heat is definitely there, it’s just a tease. As it flares to life it dies away just as fast, as the wet wake of each slide of tongues is cooled again in an instant by the frigid air. The only mercy for it comes in the following second, when the spiteful bite of the winter chill is banished by the next heated touch of each other’s lips. It’s an irresistible chain of cause and effect, a wickedly efficient engine of sensation surging through _warm wet cold warm wet cold warm_ , and it propels each kiss into the next, into the next, into the next...  
  
It’s a particularly savage lash of wind that finally stops them. They fold in on each other against the onslaught, John sliding his arm tight around Sherlock’s back and Sherlock wrapping his arm around John’s shoulders to pull him in. Neither can quite quell the sharp gasps the cold rips out of their lungs. The gust lies low again, but circles around them menacingly and herds them in the direction of Baker Street.  
  
John squeezes Sherlock closer to him for a moment, then chuckles as they part with reluctance and a shiver. “ _Christ._ Home. Now.”  
  
Sherlock nods, dazed and smiling. "Agreed." They resume walking, close enough that their arms brush against each other. Sherlock glances over at John, his smile curling slyly. "Still hate me?"  
  
John's grin is just as mischievous. "With a passion."  
  
Another gale chases them, but the sound of their laughter keeps it at bay the rest of the way home.

 

 


End file.
